


Onwards, Upwards

by allthegoodnamesaretakendammit



Category: Naruto
Genre: AU, Age Difference, BDSM, Biting, Breathplay, Crossdressing Kink, Everybody Lives, First Time, Haku is magically 17, I don’t know about you but I just want to see them happy for five minutes, M/M, Praise Kink, basically everything that's already part of their dynamic, but everybody gets treated like a full human being, but like in an unusual way, canon soulmates - Freeform, consent is a beautiful thing, power differential, slight praise kink, strong bdsm themes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-19
Updated: 2017-08-19
Packaged: 2018-12-17 01:55:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11841540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allthegoodnamesaretakendammit/pseuds/allthegoodnamesaretakendammit
Summary: They are alive. Now they must set about proving it.Or: In the wake of their narrow escape from the bridge in Wave Country, Zabuza and Haku succumb to the inevitable.





	Onwards, Upwards

 

They escape their fate on the bridge in Wave Country, but only just. Zabuza knows that it was their destiny to die in that place, cold and bound by duty, because he'd got the very same chill on his spine when he failed to take the Mizukage’s hat on the first try--as if history had been averted, as if the world had been denied what it was owed.

It was a flash of blue earthbound lightening. That was Zabuza’s death. But Haku had meant to steal it from him, flickering forward to shield him with his own body. Faster than thought or the Copy Nin himself, Zabuza had managed to form a hand seal and spook the mongrels off of him with a burst of chakra, darkly emanating off of his skin and forming his demon shroud. Dog teeth were still releasing the meat of his arms and legs as he darted in to wrap an arm around Haku’s waist. A second burst of chakra, wild and instinctive, had shunshined them far away, to the base of the bridge. From there, beyond the mist, it was clear to see one of Gatō’s boats speeding toward the construction site, as well as a rowdy mob of townspeople exiting the residential area and headed in the same direction. Another shunshin had swept the two of them into the mainland woods behind the village of rusty roofs. And with that, Zabuza had strapped his blade onto his back and urged Haku into a sprint. Now, they race through the tall green grasses and half-seeded fields and echoing marshlands, banking on the Copy Nin and his brood being too busy with Gatō’s men to immediately follow.

Haku is there at his side, matching him step for step as they whisk themselves through Wave Country: over the white dunes, through the shallow surf to scatter their scent, underneath docks wreathed in mist, between sharp sea rocks furred with algae, and back into the woodland, backlit by the setting sun.

Their urgency wanes with the day; soon they are both slowing and Zabuza is listing badly as his injuries make themselves known. They must keep on if they want to be completely sure of discouraging the Leaf nin from following, and if not the Leaf nin, then Gatō’s sloppy, mismatched crew of mercenaries. It must be in deference to this that Haku doesn’t insist on stopping to dress Zabuza’s wounds. He simply throws Zabuza’s arm over his shoulder and ensures that, as they move forward, they at least stumble in a straight line.

It suddenly occurs to Zabuza how many times they’ve done this before--Zabuza bleeding and still aching to make someone else bleed more, Haku guiding him to safety like the spirits in the myths Zabuza had never believed in. His neck twinges in time with their steps, burning with an enormous dog bite. He hangs his head, hoping that a different angle will make it hurt less distractingly. In doing so, he is an afforded an excellent view of Haku. The weight of his arm has skewed Haku's yukata and turtleneck enough to the side to reveal one snowy collarbone, a widening triangle of skin exposed through exertion and uncharacteristic carelessness. Zabuza means to cast his eyes away from it, to be worthy, to hunger more quietly, but it doesn't work this time. Death is still too near for the rules of the living to apply. He sees that skin and can't stop himself from wanting it. From wanting Haku.

Maybe it’s the chakra depletion or the blood loss or, simply put, the kind of day they’ve had, but Zabuza is moments away from sliding down to the ground and asking Haku if he’d like to lie down with him, to find a little heat and pleasure in each other, when Haku suddenly perks up. Right up ahead, there’s a wheelbarrow abandoned by the side of the road, long and narrow with a broken wheel and rotting wood. But it's nothing a bit of ninja wire and chakra can't fix, according to Haku as he leans him up against a tree to wait. Zabuza can feel himself blink in and out of being truly present as Haku makes some unimaginably creative repairs with ice, several senbon, and a hair ribbon. It leaves the smell of frost tickling his nose as Haku helps him stagger over to the wheelbarrow and then lie back in it, his head and shoulders just brushing the cold wood of its sides.

It begins to move, rolling bumpily over the dirt path. Zabuza watches the sky, an indecipherable arrangement of green patches and swathes of darkening blue. It all gets eaten up by the black haranguing his vision, aiming to swallow him under.

Zabuza allows it.

 

*

 

When he wakes, it is with an uncustomary sense of peace. He is warm and his wounds are throbbing dully with the promise of healing. The air is still, such that Zabuza doesn’t bother opening his eyes. Haku wouldn’t leave him here to sleep if it wasn’t also a place where he could afford keep his eyes closed for a few more minutes.

Zabuza permits his mind and body to drift into the swarming haze of leftover sleep. Almost immediately, his thoughts latch onto the problem of yesterday. 

Haku meant to die for him. That is not in question. Everything orbiting around it is far more puzzling. If Zabuza had allowed him to do it, could he have defeated the Copy Nin? Would his opponent be sufficiently distracted by it to lower his guard? Would Zabuza’s horror and grief and guilt and gratitude be swallowed for the sake of performance? When confronted with death of his most loyal supporter, would he comfort himself by insisting on seeing Haku and himself as tools? It’s not hard to imagine.

Haku has always devoted himself fully to the task of becoming a tool, all in order to be worthy of him, to be worthy of being taken under his wing. And in his own way, Zabuza has always tried to be worthy of him, too.

But it's hard to be worthy of Haku when he can feel their bodies calling to each other: the way they seek warmth in one another's bedroll when it's cold enough to make dew freeze on the grass around them, but Zabuza knows they manage enjoy it more than they should. The way Haku will always be hard against Zabuza's thigh when they wake the next morning, how his face will be pressed into Zabuza's chest and his arms locked around Zabuza, as though he can't bear to look but he still needs to  _feel_. The way Zabuza will say nothing about it, not interested in shaming his beautiful boy--for all that he can never call him that. The way their eyes will meet over the fire after a particularly difficult kill and, alone in the wilderness following the bloodrush of a good meal, their eyes will hold each other's as if daring the other to go to bed first, as if nighttime makes it more acceptable to look at each other, _really_ look. They must like what they see, because neither of them is willing to be the one who looks away. The way Zabuza's gaze will drift to Haku if he doesn't make a conscious effort not to let it happen. The way his hands will become restless at the sight of Haku's sleep-soft face or the artful spill of his hair as it comes out of its bun, moving Zabuza to sharpen his blade until his hands cannot want for work.

To all those who had assumed about the nature of their relationship--and there had been plenty--this would seem remarkably chaste. But to Zabaza, every piece of it feels like a treachery committed against himself.

And that's to say nothing of his heart. The reluctant burst of affection Zabuza feels as he finally rolls onto his slightly less cur-bitten side and, when he opens his eyes, the first thing he sees is Kubikiribōchō--propped carefully on the wall next to his bed, almost as tall as the wall itself. Haku knows him too well.

His hitai-ate, mask, and bracers are neatly folded on the bedside table, next to a glass of water and his beat-up Bingo Book. Zabuza summons the energy to pull aside the comforter and examine the bite mark sunken into his shoulder. Haku must have used his herbs and tonics and needles because it’s already the shiny red of a closed wound. Healing must have taken a lot out of Zabuza because he’s exhausted even though he’s only just woken, and his body protests when he even thinks about getting up and finding some food. It’s like living last week all over again. Except that after this misadventure, he’s down one fūma shuriken, he’s lost an extremely lucrative contract, and he’s pretty sure he threw his last kunai directly at the Copy Nin’s face. Not one cent closer to conducting a second coup in Kiri.

Ah, well.

The door wedges open and Haku enters like a living dream: carrying a fresh set of hand-towels, dressed in his pale pink yukata. Their eyes meet, and Haku smiles at him like he couldn’t be more pleased at the sight of him. He slides the door shut and sets the stack of clean towels beside the wash basin, wetting one of them with a sweet-smelling ointment before dousing it beneath the faucet.

It’s a small room, so Zabuza can hear every scratch of Haku’s sandals against the floor as he walks over and sits on the edge of the bed, just big enough for both of them to be on it without touching. Haku refolds the warm, damp cloth and places it squarely over the bite on Zabuza’s shoulder, the rest of his various cuts and bruises bound in cotton bandages. He probes the sore skin around Zabuza’s shoulder and notes quietly, “I don’t think you’ll get an infection. Your immune system has proved resistant to such things time and time again.”

Zabuza fucking hopes so. Dying from an infection is one of the lowest deaths he can imagine for himself. They sit in the quiet for a moment. Finally, Zabuza grumbles, “Where are we?”

Haku answers him promptly: "An inn. Far off any main roads, with only three rooms. Ours is on the northeast corner facing the woods and a small stream. The owner is under the impression that we've eloped, but my merciless father set his dogs on you as we tried to escape to start our new life together. I, your blushing bride, managed to drag you here with the help of kind strangers."

Far-fetched, but still within the bounds of reason. For a tale like that, Haku must have been playing off of whatever initial assumptions the innkeeper had made when Haku burst through the door with a half-dead giant slung over his side. But that's not what Zabuza finds himself fixating on. 

"Are you?" Haku blinks. So Zabuza says it more clearly: "Are you my beautiful, blushing bride?"

Haku goes pink in a way Zabuza would have thought he'd trained him out of. By god, it's good that he's such a piss-poor teacher.

“We belong to each other, Haku,” he states plainly and Haku nods without hesitation, knowing it to be true. “I want you. And I want us to belong to each other completely. Do you understand?”

Honest to the core, Haku shakes his head, making the metal bands around his bangs tap together. His hair is still up in its neat bun and Zabuza wants to sink his fingers into it, to feel it unspool under his hand. Rallying, Zabuza clarifies, “Not as a tool. As my boy.” There’s that blush, twice as deep now, stealing over Haku like a summer flood. Zabuza holds his eyes, telling him, “Not to be useful. But because you want to.”

“I… I want to,” Haku says, sounding less than certain.

“Are you sure?” Zabuza chuckles. "I'm an old man, next to you. Unkind. Cold."

"You're not cold," Haku contends. "You're... stoic."

He looks at Zabuza with bright eyes, so very alive with embarrassment and the desire to argue. Zabuza finds himself asking, “You meant to die for me. Didn’t you, Haku?” He turns his head aside, eyes scrunched shut, seven tells showing themselves at once. Not wanting to take credit where credit is due or, perhaps, fearing chastisement for interfering with Zabuza's affairs.

There are many things that Haku has never told him. He’s never explained whether or not he blames himself for his parents’ deaths. He’s never spoken one way or another about the snow clouds that tend to collect above their heads if they linger in one place for too long. He’s never told Zabuza that he loves him.

There are some things that do not need to be said aloud.

Zabuza reads it in the line of his shoulders and the set of his jaw: yes. Yes, I would die for you. Gladly, but for the fact that it would leave you in this world, where I could no longer take care of you. Yes.

It is the inevitable conclusion of their relationship, the culmination of everything that he has taught Haku. And yet, Zabuza knows what all of the Seven Swordsmen know: a blade is only as worthwhile as the one holding it.

“You’re good at being a tool, Haku,” he says, peeling the comforter back to let it pool around his waist. “I wonder if you could learn to be the hand that wields the tool. I’d like to see that.” Haku stares at him with almost comically large eyes, apparently at a loss for words. Maybe he thinks it’s Zabuza’s exhaustion talking.

“Zabuza-san,” Haku whispers, as if it’s an answer in and of itself. God, but just looking at him is a revelation: expression sweetly confused, his yukata falling just below his knee. And then Haku’s eyes drift down to his lips, maskless and in a customary frown, but Haku looks mesmerized by the simple fact of them. He’s wearing the very same desire that Zabuza can feel being flung about in his own heart, light and ever-surprising like seaspray.

They are alive. Now they must set about proving it.

Zabuza looks him dead in the eye and tells him, “I'm done pretending… that I don't feel the way I do about you.”

Haku’s eyes are shining now, his hand covering his mouth. Yet, the words escape: “Me too. I don’t want to pretend anymore. I--” He shakes his head, clearly keeping a leash on his tears. “I want you, Zabuza-san. Not just because you want me, but for my own sake. I want you.”

Zabuza attempts to lever himself up, bed creaking in protest. “Ah,” Haku says, hands hovering over Zabuza’s chest as though he means to stop him.

No patience to soften his intentions with, Zabuza glares and tells him, “Either I’m coming up there or you’re coming down here.”

Haku stares down at him, in confusion that gives way to suspicion that gives way to hopeful wanting. The hands hesitating over Zabuza’s chest carefully make contact, flattening over the planes of his skin. Despite everything--handling kunai and senbon and endless hard work--Haku’s hands are fine and soft. The bed creaks again as Haku scoots closer to him, knees tucked underneath himself as his sandals slide off his feet and hit the floor with a clack. It is perhaps the first time Zabuza has ever seen Haku remove his shoes without care. His hip is flush against Zabuza’s arm, his palms against Zabuza’s chest to steady himself as he begins to lean down.

There is a multitude of sensations that make up that moment: Haku’s yukata brushing against Zabuza’s skin and then being pressed firmly against him, the weight of Haku against his chest. The rustling of bedclothes as Haku slowly lowers himself, straining forward make his body accommodate Zabuza's too-long one. There is the burn of Zabuza’s wounds, yes, but he often has wounds and he has never felt Haku bearing down on him; he’s never seen Haku looking at him like _that_. The pain is displaced by the novelty of anticipation, the thrum of want rebounding between them. Haku’s face is just over his now, his bangs tickling Zabuza’s cheek. He is fully in the shadow Haku casts as he lays a hand on Haku’s back. Not to rush him, but to give him some affirmation because the kid looks half out of his mind with nerves. He hasn’t torn his eyes away from Zabuza’s mouth all this time and ultimately, with one last apprehensive breath, Haku closes the distance between them.

Zabuza can feel things best when he closes his eyes, so that’s what he does. The plush pressure of Haku’s lips against his is surprising in its power, warmth suffusing him like he’s just settled into a bath. Haku is kissing him judiciously, like he’s using his mind to do it instead of his body--little hummingbird pecks that have him constantly changing angles, searching for the right answer. Zabuza tries to convince him otherwise by kneading the small of Haku’s back and kissing him back like they’ll be doing this all day--slowly, nice and easy.

Haku seems to liquify against him, resting his full weight on Zabuza, heedless of his injuries. His heart is beating hard and fast right above Zabuza’s, which is moving at more of a lazy, syrupy thud. Haku must be keeping careful track of it because he pulls just far enough away to say, “You… you don’t have much energy to spare.”

He says it like he wants to disputed, and Zabuza doesn’t disappoint him. “I have enough for this.”

A smile sweeps across Haku’s face and his hands are still splayed over Zabuza, nails meticulously painted that deep green. He’s never really seen the point of it till now, when he can admire the contrast Haku’s fingers against make his bare chest. Zabuza finally takes the time to wonder whether or not he’s wearing pants. A shift of his legs against each other confirms that he’s in his standard-issue black pair, and they feel suspiciously grime-free. He levels a look at Haku and states, “You stripped me. Cleaned my wounds. Washed my clothes, redressed me. How did it feel, Haku? How did it feel when this body was yours?”

Haku refuses to let his lower lip quiver; Zabuza can tell from the firm set to his mouth. The way his eyes grow worried and his face stays neutral as he asks, “Was I wrong to… to enjoy it?”

A tired chuckle rumbles out of Zabuza and he admits, “No.”

He pushes himself up so that he can sit upright, making Haku sigh discontentedly, “Must you?”

“Yes,” Zabuza answers, leaning back to rest on the pillows piled against the headboard. It necessarily creates some distance between them, Haku kneeling by his thigh now. He finishes his thought, “I’m just glad I never had to do that for you. It would have been hell, trying not to touch you more than I needed to.”

“Yes,” Haku breathes, as though suddenly catching his reflection in the mirror. “It is hell. It is also heaven, and the place in between, where we live.” Haku audibly, visibly swallows and concludes formally, sincerely, “But it is a pleasure to be beside you, to tend to you, to keep you in good health.”

Zabuza answers, perhaps somewhat wonderingly, “You really are my little wife.” Haku turns a color he’s never seen on him before: bright, bright red.

Then he folds his hands in his lap and says, “Yes. Yes, I am.”

Haku is too obliging, entirely too kind. Zabuza has no doubt their lives will still be bloody and difficult and entirely too short, but Haku is his legacy to this godforsaken, half-drowned world. They might as well enjoy the brief time they spend slogging through it together. At least, that’s what Zabuza tells himself as he lifts his bandaged but serviceable arm and orders, “Come here.”

He folds himself under Zabuza’s arm like he’s just been waiting for Zabuza to ask. “Here, you are safe,” he tells Haku. At that, he tucks his face under Zabuza’s chin. It’s no show of timidity, either. Zabuza can feel Haku’s pulse picking up, his fingers digging into the pillows like he’s reaching for an anchor. “Here, you are mine.” He wraps his arms around Haku slowly, letting him feel how they’re caging him in, giving him every opportunity to squirm away. Haku breathes hot breath onto his throat, a promising shape poking at the front of his yukata and nudging Zabuza’s side. “Now,” Zabuza says. “Tell me what you want.”

Haku looks up at him, then, eyes burning bright. “I want you take it,” he says and nameless things wash through Zabuza, hearing him talk like that. “Take what you want from me, Zabuza-san. I can imagine no higher pleasure for myself.”

The way he says it, it doesn’t sound like it’s from a failure of imagination. Still, Zabuza must gruffly ask, “But what do you want from me?”

“You,” Haku answers. “Your desire, in full, enacted upon me. Give yourself to me, Master.” And then they’re kissing hard, and Zabuza knows he must have initiated it because Haku is moaning into his mouth and they’re on their sides like Zabuza had twisted them there. He’s clasping Haku tight, holding him in place so he can fuck his mouth his tongue, suck on his lower lip, and squeeze those needy sounds out of him. Zabuza is getting hard now, but not quite horny enough to just starting rutting against Haku. So he ignores it for now. His dick will still be there in five minutes.

Haku fucking loves kissing. Zabuza knows this because Haku kisses him and kisses him, grasping at Zabuza’s back and hitching a leg over Zabuza’s hip. It takes some time for either of them to admit they need air. Zabuza can hold his breath for longer, so it’s Haku who breaks away, his chest heaving and his lips red. They stare at each other, the way they’ve done over so many campfires in so many wildernesses, but this time is different. This time, Zabuza gives himself permission to devour the boy before him: the full measure of his loveliness, the slight shake in his fingers as they dig into Zabuza’s shoulder blade.

Then there’s that black necklace banded closely around his throat, a temptation all on its own. Zabuza tucks the tips of two fingers underneath it, as that’s all that the slack will allow for. At the feeling of Zabuza’s fingers against the nape of his neck, Haku’s eyelashes flutter and his flush deepens, spreading to his ears and chest. Zabuza gives a gentle tug, making the necklace pull tight against Haku’s throat before letting it slacken again. Haku’s breath catches, more from emotion than from force, and when it resumes it is high and reedy and quick. “Zabuza,” Haku gasps, sounding desperate. Shit. Is he close already?

The anxious, almost tearful look in Haku’s eye tells him yes. So Zabuza pulls him close and holds him there quietly, rolling over onto his back because the bite marks on his side have begun to ache. They pass long minutes like that, pressed up against each other and waiting for Haku to cool down.

Besides, it gives Zabuza time to look. To take notice of the girlish shape of Haku’s lips, how enormous his eyes are even when closed. The weave of his white muslin belt under Zabuza’s hand, the ruffled trim of the lacy thing covering his bun. Haku would know what it's called. Altogether, he’s...

Pretty. Cute, even. He’s tempted to tell Haku that, if only to see what he’ll do.

Might as well. It's Haku’s first time, after all. It needs to be good, on every level.

So Zabuza weaves his fingers into Haku’s dark hair and says, “You’re cute. Do you know that?” Haku turns his face further into Zabuza’s chest, as if reenacting their countless frost-filled mornings together, and just trembles. Thoroughly entertained, voice as dark as ever, Zabuza prods him, “Do you know that?”

Haku clenches one hand in the bed sheets and gives one tense nod, whispering, “Yes.”

Zabuza rakes his fingers over his scalp, perhaps in reward or perhaps for his own gratification. His other hand molds itself to Haku’s hip, thumb playing with the divot between the end of his stomach and the beginning of his thigh. Haku must like to be touched because his breathing is picking up again, a soft sound escaping him as Zabuza musses his hair. At length, he pulls the cord keeping Haku’s bun in place, letting it spill everywhere. His hair smells like lavender and good, clean things--the scent entirely familiar even if the sight of Haku’s hair in disarray isn’t. Zabuza finds himself hauling Haku up so that that he can nose along the pale skin on the edge of his hairline, at the very beginning of his neck. And since Zabuza’s nose is already there, his mouth follows--lips tracing careless shapes before laving his tongue over that skin. Zabuza resists the urge to bite, to leave a real mark. Acting like a bloodthirsty psycho is pretty much his calling card, but he’s not about to bloody up Haku just because he got careless with his teeth. As he places one last lingering kiss there, Haku asks him, voice wavering, "Could... could you? Use your teeth?"

Zabuza chuckles, and for once there's nothing predatory in it but he can feel Haku shiver anyway. "They're too sharp for that. It'll hurt."

He can hear and feel Haku swallow. "I... I want them. Even if they hurt. Maybe even _because_ they'll hurt."

Zabuza takes that admission and runs with it. He  _is_ a demon, after all.

So he sets his teeth against Haku’s throat and scrapes lightly over the skin there, smooth and yielding. Haku moans, the vibrations of it shaking under Zabuza’s teeth as he places bite after bite, just short of drawing blood. Now, _those_ are some of the most outrageous hickies Zabuza has ever seen. Still, he sucks on them and flicks his tongue over the big red one right above Haku’s necklace. Haku gives a single, abortive thrust against Zabuza’s stomach, moving entirely on instinct. Haku has always had killer instincts, in every sense. It’s rare to meet someone whose body was so perfectly made for killing and whose heart was entirely unsuited for it. Case in point, Haku is making a despairing sound, on the verge of apology.

Zabuza is chuckling again, and puts a hand on Haku’s ass to encourage him to do it again. Haku does it, jerking his hips forward and back under Zabuza’s hand, his breathing hard and distressed. Zabuza puts his lips close to his ear and murmurs, “What’s wrong?” as if the quietness of the question will make Haku less upset at being asked it.

“I--I adore you,” Haku says, sounding entirely too high-strung. “I need this to be perfect for you. _I_ need to be--”

Zabuza knows pressure points, a holdover from his ANBU days. So does Haku. As such, there is no secret between them as Zabuza rubs concentric circles behind Haku’s ear, transparently searching for the spot that will make him relax completely, that will take him outside of his need to be good for Zabuza. Well into his hairline, half an inch behind Haku’s ear, Zabuza finds it. Haku slumps against him completely as Zabuza massages it again and again, rubbing hard circles into it even as Haku’s hips give a few halting thrusts and he sighs, sounding happy and empty-headed.

So Zabuza flips them, laying Haku on his back, the two of them pressed groin to groin. Zabuza kneels over him, his elbows creating dips in the mattress on either side of Haku’s head, and he tries to keep his weight on his knees and off of his still-healing shins. Haku spreads his legs for it, knees coming up on either side of Zabuza as he tips his head back to let Zabuza get at his throat again.

Haku, ever the giver.

Zabuza rocks them together, savoring the relief of getting a little friction on his own cock as Haku gasps and pushes his hips into the next thrust. He hums in approval, leaning down gnaw on Haku’s neck while he rubs their cocks together, hot and hard through their clothing. There’s no finesse to it, but Haku likes it. Zabuza can tell from the small, stunned noises he’s making; the way legs clamp around Zabuza reflexively as if he’s already getting close again.

He’d bet he could get Haku there even faster. He is, if nothing else, a practitioner of psychological warfare. “My boy. My beautiful, beautiful boy,” Zabuza tells him. The register of his voice is getting lower and lower until it’s just a rumble in his throat. The body under him jolts, Haku’s breathing going high and sharp.

Doing his best not to accidentally pull on Haku’s hair from where it’s scattered over the bed, Zabuza lowers himself again to suck on the largest, angriest-looking hickey on Haku’s neck, hips slowing to circle and grind meaningfully against Haku. There are nails scrabbling for purchase on Zabuza’s back, but Zabuza is all muscle and bone so there’s not a lot to cling to.

“Please,” Haku moans, wanton, in a manner he never would have expected from his sweet, modest Haku.

It leaves Zabuza exhaling, "Ah, Haku. Where did my shy boy go?"

Haku thrashes a little, clutching fitfully at Zabuza’s shoulders and answering, "I--I haven't gone anywhere. I'm right here. I’ll always be--" The rest is substituted with panting, and the way sweat beads up on his skin as Zabuza starts to thrust again, taking up a fast stable rhythm.

Zabuza pushes them together until Haku can’t string a sentence together; crying out only, “ _Master--_ ”

Sinking a hand into Haku’s hair to pull his head all the way back, Zabuza busies himself with creating a whole new line of hickies down the other side of Haku’s throat. Haku is nonverbal now, his breath hitching and what’s left of his voice making noises that are formless and raw. There’s something symbiotic about it, as though Haku’s free expression of his urgency is also a release valve for Zabuza’s own. Because heat truly is building within Zabuza, throbbing in his cock, and it is with sharp satisfaction that he notes Haku will be coming any moment now. His face has held that flush for so long now, Zabuza can't help but think it might be stained that red forever. Haku bucks once, twice, tossing his head without an ounce of composure.

And then he climaxes, his breathlessness such that he can’t make a sound. Zabuza watches. He watches as the crush of pleasure makes Haku forget himself completely, the front of his yukata growing dark and his mouth open in a perfect little  _O._  He comes so hard, he seems to almost immediately sink into sleep, or possibly he blacks out. It’s kind of hard to tell.

Next to that, Zabuza’s climax is something of an afterthought, even to himself. He flashes hot, he flashes cold. There is a lightness in his head and a lurch in his stomach, and then a damp mess in his pants, his cock pulsing and oversensitized as his hips still. Orgasms are never as good when your chakra is depleted. The afterglow is twice as nice, though.

He falls into a controlled collapse beside Haku, bed squeaking indignantly as he flops onto his stomach. He slings an arm over the boy beside him and his hand smacks against the cold washcloth, abandoned and soaking the far corner of the bed. Zabuza grunts and picks it up, laying it back over his shoulder to let the ointment do its work. His wounds are prickling and sore, but the pain of them feels distant in the rush of calm and quiet that’s now filled the room. As always in his spare time, Zabuza’s thoughts turn to retaking Kiri.

Weapons can be stolen and real allies can’t be bought, but it’s still going to take money to grease the palms of the right patrolmen and body guards--unless they want to tear right through them and have the Mizukage see them coming from a mile away. Maybe for now he and Haku will stick strictly to bounty hunting and avoid taking anymore contracts. Or maybe they’ll try their hand at leveraging their shinobi skills against the casinos.

Hell, Haku would be an unbelievable poker player. They’ll all be distracted by his pretty face and never think to guess about what’s in his head or in his hand. Come to think of it, Zabuza knows a former Kiri nin living on the border of the Land of Iron and the Land of Earth that swears by his personal method for tricking the slot machines.

And then, when they’ve scraped together enough cash, they’ll regroup Zabuza’s allies dispersed across the Elemental Countries and they’ll come up a strategy that will _work_ this time, and they’ll grease those palms and take the Mizukage’s head before he’s even thought to look up from the papers he’s signing at his desk. And if by some trick of fate they fail again, Zabuza and Haku will drag their bloody, shameless selves back to safety and start plotting to make the third attempt. For the very first time, though, Zabuza asks himself if he honestly plans on installing himself in Yagura’s place. Living in the lavish sprawl of the Mizukage’s mansion, endless wrangling with that foul fucking daimyō, wearing the stupid hat and all.

It doesn’t seem like the sort of profession he should take up after a life filled with bloodshed and a hatred of frippery. Luckily, he knows a guy who loves playing dress up.

He looks over at Haku, feeling it all click into his place in his head. Haku has always wanted to make Zabuza's dreams a reality. What better position to do that from than as Mizukage? He’d be far from the first Mizukage with a kekkei genkai, and he’d win people over quicker than anybody else Zabuza knows. Even wild animals like him, and Kiri nin are more like animals than not. Plus, Zabuza has never acted as a bodyguard for someone he actually _liked_ before. Haku will need it, sure to face resistance when assuming high political office while so young. In fact, it’s not unlikely that the other Kages will pull for an older candidate, since the age at which Yagura took the hat is commonly thought to contribute to how fucking terrible he is at being Mizukage. Maybe Zabuza will get an excuse to fight all five Kages after all.

Still, the facts will be clear to everyone soon enough: that Haku will be the kind of Mizukage that bleeds for what he protects, not the other way around. That no amount of fear can make him anything less than measured and level-headed. That no amount of cruelty can make him unkind.

Zabuza will ask him in the morning, what he’d like the cut of his robes to be and the talking points they should be pitching to potential allies. Knowing Haku, it’ll be expanding the homeless shelters or something. Crazy kid.

It seems like just the other day that Zabuza was minding his own business, hurling abuse at a scruffy orphan, when he suddenly got saddled with a permanent sidekick. And the intervening years of wealth-driven wanderings and teaching Haku the agony of being a shinobi… they seem too brief. They’ve had so much of each other, but it hasn’t been enough. The last hour is proof of that. Perhaps it will always be that way between them. Hurled together by chance, subsisting entirely off of each other, never getting enough.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Haku knows how to treat dog bites because of his own time spent on the streets, where he’d sometimes have to fight off rabid dogs in order to scavenge dinner from the trash. Isn’t canon just the worst? 
> 
> It would mean a lot if you’d leave a comment--I love you people and I crave validation! Humor me! (◕‿◕✿)


End file.
